


Ease

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent, First Time, M/M, Massage, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: John makes everything easy.





	Ease

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for the "gift" challenge (amnesty edition) at [fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org](https://fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org)

Harold still isn’t sure how he came to be lying on his stomach, stripped to his shorts.  Rather, he remembers quite clearly the steps that brought him to this position.  What he doesn’t understand is how John managed to make it all so easy.

It’s not that John is a particularly easy person—on the contrary.  He’s stubborn, taciturn, moody, inquisitive to a fault, and has both a martyr complex and a mischievous streak, both of which Harold all too frequently finds targeted at himself.  And yet, when he isn’t driving Harold mad with anxiety and/or irritation, John has a remarkable capacity for making things easy.

They’d wrapped up today’s number with a minimum of mayhem, but a great deal of hacking on Harold’s part.  Hunching intently over the keyboard for too many hours at a stretch had—entirely predictably—left all his muscles cramping in protest.  Returning to the library with sandwiches, John must have noticed him struggling to rise and deciding to defer the attempt.  But rather than saying anything about it, he simply deposited a sandwich on Harold’s desk, went off to fill the electric kettle, and returned a few minutes later with a cup of tea, which Harold drank gratefully.  He’d already demolished half the sandwich, not having had the chance for a lunch break.

“Got any urgent business tonight?” John asked when the food was gone and Harold was steeling himself for another attempt to coax his aching body to its feet.

“Not particularly, Mr. Reese,” he replied.

“Then how about I give you a backrub?”  John’s tone was so casual, he might as well have been offering Harold another cup of tea. 

A year ago, Harold might have suspected yet another ploy in John’s campaign to gather intelligence about one Harold Finch.  But tonight, he heard only an offer of kindness from one friend to another, presented with care for Harold’s pride.

It was easy to accept that offer, to let John assist him to his feet and support him with one hand on his back and the other under his arm, to let John usher him to the cot they keep for naps and emergencies.

Harold was even willing to let John help him out of his jacket and waistcoat, to shed his tie and undo his collar button.  Though admittedly, he was taken aback when John suggested, “Be better with your clothes off.”

“Is the rest truly necessary?” Harold asked, hesitating.

“Nope,” said John lightly.  “Like this is okay, if you prefer.  But there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  Trust me.”

And given the scope of what Harold _does_ trust John with on a daily basis, the knowledge of what Harold’s bare skin looks like seemed negligible by comparison.  So he undid shirt buttons, belt, and trouser buttons; let John kneel to remove his shoes and socks and then relieve him of the rest.  Then he lowered himself gingerly onto the cot.  John arranged some cushions to support Harold’s head so that he could lie face down with his neck straight and still breathe freely.

“Start gently,” Harold cautioned, having experienced a professional massage or two in his time, some more successful than others.

“You got it,” John replied.

He started absurdly gently, in fact, dragging his short-trimmed up and down Harold’s bare back with just enough pressure to relieve, rather than incite, itching.  He progressed gradually to languorous stroking that raised gooseflesh on Harold’s arms even as it warmed his slightly chilly skin. 

By the time John finally begins to apply delicate pressure to the chronic knots between Harold’s shoulderblades, Harold is, paradoxically, both impatient for him to move faster, and feeling the calm, floating sensation he sometimes experiences when half-asleep.

“You can press more firmly,” he tells John.  The words come out mushy, as though he’s had a shot of Novocaine.  John kindly doesn’t laugh at him, and does increase the pressure of his thumbs, until he pauses at the juncture of Harold’s shoulders and neck.

“How about here?” he asks, lightly stroking Harold’s neck on either side of his vertebrae.

“’S all right,” Harold mumbles.  “Muscles are fine.  Just don’t try to move my head.”

“’Course not,” replies John, who assuredly already knows as much about Harold’s injuries as it’s possible to glean without reading his (non-existent) medical records.  If he’s making new deductions from this unprecedented view of Harold’s surgical scars. . .well, Harold can’t bring himself to mind.

John’s capable fingers work their way deliciously up to the base of Harold’s skull, and when his thumbs dig in just _there_ , it feels like he’s opened a safety valve to vent the excess pressure on Harold’s _brain_.

Harold groans softly, savoring the sudden relief of pain he hadn’t even been aware of carrying about with him.

“Uh huh,” John murmurs, as though agreeing with some profound observation Harold has made. 

He continues to massage Harold’s skull until his head feels like it’s floating, then spends a delightful while softening up his shoulders.  After that, John lays his open palms lightly on Harold’s hips.

“Okay?” John asks, as before, passing his palms over Harold’s hips and lower back.  By now, Harold is too relaxed to reflexively tense as he normally would at a touch to the injured area.

He grunts affirmatively, and John proceeds to carefully, systematically, melt every chronically-clenched muscle in Harold’s lumbar region.  From there, he works his way down Harold’s legs: hips, thighs, calves, ankles, feet (and, good Lord, Harold’s current shoes are all custom-fitted and he’d thought they were in good condition, but apparently, he ought to consider whether some of his favorites are in need of replacement). 

John manages to avoid tickling any of Harold’s sensitive spots.  He also manages to tend to Harold’s inner thighs and last, his rear end, without. . .well. . .crossing over into the erotic, in the sense that John doesn’t do anything a professional massage therapist wouldn’t.  And yet. . .and yet, it would be disingenuous to claim that this, John’s hands lingering on Harold’s naked flesh until his whole body is loose and tingling, is simply the intimacy of friends, devoid of erotic charge.

After all, John is infinitely more to Harold than a hired professional.  More than a dear friend.  It’s by no means irrelevant that Harold can’t imagine submitting himself to be handled this way by any other living soul.

He catches himself rocking his hips against the cot and stills the motion—John’s earlier promise notwithstanding, there is still room for embarrassment here.

But John’s voice is warm and lazy as a pool of June sunshine when he murmurs, “Anything else I can help you with, Harold?”  One of his hands rests between the small of Harold’s back and the swell of his rear; it nudges just a little, encouraging Harold’s hips to tip again.

Harold doesn’t know how they got here, but his body feels better than it has in a long time, arousal is gathering in his groin, and John has no reason to be doing this unless he truly wants to.

“If you’d be so good,” Harold replies, and John snorts softly, then cups Harold’s ass with both hands and begins to knead it—with unmistakable intent, this time.

“See?  Easier with your clothes off,” says John as kneading turns to stroking, cupping, caressing.

“You said _better,_ ” Harold corrects him, the pendantry mostly a deliberate play to get John’s goat.

“True,” John concedes.  Harold can hear him smiling.  “So, is it better?”

“While this hardly constitutes a controlled experiment—”  Harold’s breath catches as John squeezes him with both hands, thumbs pressing between his buttocks, hampered by the fabric of his boxer shorts.  “Ev—evidence so far does tend to support your hypothesis.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“In fact,” Harold forges on hastily, refusing to worry about how breathless he sounds already.  “I’d go so far as to wager that complete, ah, nudity would constitute an improvement.”

“Oh, you’d go that far, huh?”  There’s laughter bubbling under John’s dry tone, and he’s beginning to sound a little breathless, himself.

“I would.  If you’d be so kind as to. . .”  Harold twitches his hips upward; he can’t actually raise them any appreciable distance without pain, but fortunately, he doesn’t need to.  John takes the hint with admirable alacrity, supporting Harold’s pelvis with one improbably large, hot palm while using his other hand to slip Harold’s erection free of its silk confines.  His breath is hot and damp on Harold’s rear as he works the underwear off Harold’s legs—the task doesn’t _require_ him to bend quite so close, but Harold isn’t complaining.  Harold is, in fact, squirming with pleasure and anticipation, his penis rubbing tantalizingly against the sheets.

John’s soft grunt of appreciation jolts Harold’s slowly gathering arousal into a higher gear—to badly mix metaphors, but Harold can hardly be blamed for linguistic carelessness in his internal monologue when John is looking at him, _admiring_ him, touching him, his fingertips working gently into the short hair at the base of Harold’s skull, his mouth pressing reverent kisses to the sensitive small of Harold’s back. 

Harold pants into the pillow as John nibbles and licks and sucks the flesh of his buttocks, then kisses his way up Harold’s spine.  John’s breath is soft but quick in his ear, on his neck, as John nuzzles him.  John’s tongue flickers into Harold’s ear, and Harold moans high in his throat; John’s answering moan is more like a growl.

When John’s finger teases at his lips, Harold opens his mouth and sucks it in, suckles it, worries it oh, so gently with his teeth, savoring the increasing raggedness of John’s breath.

“What do you think?” John murmurs, sliding his finger out of Harold’s mouth and touching it lightly to the cleft of Harold’s ass.  “You want?”

“Please,” Harold whispers before he can second-guess or over-think.  “Only—it might—I might—it’s been—”

“A while?” John suggests, no judgement in his voice, and it hardly seems worth feeling embarrassment or reluctance on that account at this juncture, with John’s damp finger dipping sensuously between Harold’s cheeks.  It ventures a little deeper with each pass, sending delightful sparks all through Harold’s pelvic region and adding to the warm tension gathering at the base of his spine. 

“Too long,” sighs Harold.

John chuckles sympathetically.

“Me, too.”  His fingertip finds Harold’s anus, probes carefully, then settles in to a slow, gentle circular pressure that soon has Harold squirming again.

“Oh—yes, that’s—that’s good,” he murmurs.

“Mm hm. . .”  John might be acknowledging the feedback or endorsing the sentiment, but either way, his voice is low and warm and rough and nearly as arousing as what he’s doing with his finger.

He pushes the tip in past Harold’s defenses—and Harold doesn’t _want_ to defend against this, but his body clenches automatically, unused to the incursion.

“Sorry—” he gasps, but John nuzzles him behind the ear, murmuring, “You’re fine, don’t worry, just breathe, nice and slow. . .”

Harold breathes, concentrating on the electric shivers produced by John’s lips on his neck rather than on the finger rocking minutely inside his entrance, coaxing his muscles to relax, to accept.  This would be easier with artificial lubricant, and perhaps it was foolish of them to progress this far without it, but Harold doesn’t want to risk the awkwardness that would almost surely ensue if they paused now.  Besides, John is insinuating his finger further into Harold’s body now, so slowly and carefully that it doesn’t hurt at all.  It doesn’t feel particularly pleasurable, either, as yet—not directly, where John’s touching him.  However, through some mysterious indirect effect, the penetration is arousing him to such a degree that his erection aches, trapped under his full weight.

He presses down against the cot—to the extent that he can rotate his hips, which isn’t much—and groans at the swell of pleasure.  The upswing causes John’s finger to sink abruptly further in and nudge Harold’s prostate, sending a flash of sensation coursing along all his nerves. 

“Yes—oh—that,” Harold stutters out, because though it would have been unthinkable to ask John for this—for any of this—from a cold start, now that they’re in the middle of it, it’s not so difficult to communicate the necessary details.  Not difficult at all to respond to the way John’s touching him.

“More?” John asks, and Harold gasps, “Yes, please.” John obliges with a leisurely rhythm that destroys whatever vestiges of self-restraint Harold had left.  Each brush of his prostate is a burst of fireworks that makes him whimper and pant, open-mouthed and trembling in anticipation of the next.  The strokes between these micro-ecstasies gradually shift from a not-quite-uncomfortable distraction to pleasant caresses.  Relaxing around John’s finger is no longer a conscious effort, but instinctive—like the need to clench around each new jolt of pleasure—like the need to rock his yearning penis against the cot below.

John’s free hand rests on Harold’s left buttock, steadying him, spreading him for ease of access, squeezing gently in time with the erotic havoc he’s wreaking inside Harold.

He hopes John isn’t planning to—there’s no way they can—certainly not in this position, possibly not at all—but before he can muster the words to warn John, John slides one hand under his pelvis and the other under his chest and deftly flips him onto his back.

“Okay if I suck you off?” John asks, and Harold, caught off-guard but definitely not opposed to the notion, stammers, “That—if you—yes.  Please.  John.”

John leans down and kisses Harold deeply, as though he’s licking his name off Harold’s tongue.  Then, leaving Harold gasping, he shifts to kneel on the floor, braces Harold’s penis with one of those big hands, and sucks it down.

Harold convulses, lust-shocked, but John is holding him in position so that his body can’t strain old injuries with the sudden movement.  Because, of course, John knows the limits of Harold’s range of motion; that’s important data for his job.  And, of course, John will make sure Harold doesn’t get hurt, not even by accident, not even by Harold himself.  John will—Harold doesn’t have to—Harold doesn’t have to do anything but surrender to the wave of pleasure enveloping him, mounting, cresting, breaking—

It leaves him limp, all his muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in years.  He pries his eyelids open and blinks up at John with a smile that undoubtedly makes him look high.  Which he is, on endorphins and sentiment.  Even without his glasses, Harold can make out John’s answering smile clearly enough.  It’s composed of approximately three parts fondness, one part smugness, and one part arousal.

Ah, yes.  Harold is being unpardonably rude, to just lie here luxuriating rather than reciprocating.  Which he would very much like to do.  Only he’s so relaxed just at the moment, the slightest movement feels like a monumental effort.  On the other hand, no amount of effort would be more than John deserves, so Harold marshals his forces and reaches out to stroke John’s chest.

He receives instant reinforcement in double measure: the gratifying novelty of John’s bare skin under his fingertips, and a pleased rumble from John.  Encouraged—entranced—he explores as much of John’s torso as he can reach from his supine position.

“What would you like me to. . . ?” he begins, but John shakes head. 

“It’s all right, Harold.  Don’t worry about it.”

“This was purely for my benefit?”  Harold isn’t sure he cares for that idea.  “Or. . .is the appeal for you, ah, service?”  Sexual power dynamics hold little appeal for him, but if it were something John truly wanted, for his own gratification, Harold would figure out some way to— 

“Not exactly.”  John looks away from Harold’s face—difficult to manage, at this angle and distance.  His body tenses under Harold’s hands, but he makes no attempt to move away.  “It’s not that I don’t. . .It’s just. . .look, sex is. . .complicated.  For me.  Because of. . .field work.”

“Ah.  I see.”  Or, he does and he doesn’t, Harold supposes.  No matter how much he _knows_ about John’s past life, he’ll never understand, on an emotional level, what it was like for him.  But he does take John’s point, much as he’d prefer to believe in a rosier version of service to one’s country.  “But. . .this wasn’t sex, then?”

“No!  It was.  I just. . .”  With a visible effort, John meets Harold’s eyes again as he whispers, “I’ve lied so much and I don’t want to. . .mix you up with that.”

“Fair enough,” says Harold.  He kisses John tenderly, hoping to reassure him, but his mind is already running on ahead, poking at the problem, casting up possible solutions.  “Well then. . .what if you, ah, took care of yourself while I kissed you?”

John blinks.  His brows crease, then smooth almost at once.  He blinks again, a long, slow sweep of eyelashes.

“Yeah. . .yeah, that would—that’s good.”   In contrast to his awkward stammer, John’s eyes are luminous.  But then the frown returns as he adds, “Not much fun for you, though.”

“On the contrary,” says Harold firmly, and John doesn’t argue, but simply nods, apparently taking him at his word.

“Okay.  Then, yeah.  We could.”

Harold rolls (carefully) onto his side to close the distance between them and kisses him again.

“Go on, then,” he murmurs, barely taking his lips from John’s.

John’s arm moves between them—from kissing distance, Harold can’t see anything other than blurry glimpses of John’s nose, cheek, eyebrow, but he hears the rattle of John’s belt buckle, the shush of his pants opening, and the almost-inaudible snap of an elastic waistband.  John’s gasp is loud by comparison.  Harold sucks John’s breath in, presses their mouths closer together, coaxes John’s tongue into his own mouth.

The soft groan John makes as Harold suckles his tongue sounds like pain, but it isn’t, Harold is certain.  He makes encouraging noises of his own as he feels John’s shoulder moving, the minute vibration of the bed between them.

He removes his mouth from John’s for a moment to murmur, “Good?” and John makes a strangled noise midway between a laugh and a groan.

“Yeah, it’s. . .yeah.”

Chuckling, Harold goes back to his self-assigned task of kissing John, but John breaks the kiss almost immediately to add, breathlessly, “See, Harold, this is why I—why I wanted to do this with you.”

“Mm?” Harold prompts.

“Knew you’d make it easy,” John mutters.

Which is a preposterous thing to say, given that the credit for bringing them to this point is entirely John’s, but Harold lets the point stand unchallenged.  He has more important things to do just now than debate it.  For example, stroking John’s tongue with his own until he gives up a series of tiny, enticing grunts and gasps, unlike any sound Harold has heard him make before.  Murmuring encouragement into his mouth as John starts to tremble, the motion of his arm speeding up.  Finding out—soon, soon—what noise John will make when he comes.

Besides, he silently concedes as he swallows John’s groan and gives back one of his own, it’s possible that John’s claim is not entirely without merit.


End file.
